


Can't Forgive, Can't Forget

by httpqisandcry



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: British and Spanish Empires, M/M, Memories, Some Fluff, Some angst, i love these bois, what i do instead of photography work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23038681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/httpqisandcry/pseuds/httpqisandcry
Summary: arthur and antonio were terrible people
Relationships: England/Spain (Hetalia)
Kudos: 28





	Can't Forgive, Can't Forget

It’s 6pm.

Arthur should be in his hotel room. He shouldn’t be sitting on a brick wall, jacket slumped over his shoulder, as the warm breeze flutters through his hair. Green orbs glance over to the man beside him. Antonio is still in his suit, the exhaustion of a meeting staining his face. His empty smile tries to mask the fatigue but Arthur has known him too long.

The blonde opens his mouth but is interrupted by a voice projected by distant speakers. He knows these words. He’s heard them pierce the callous cries of war. He’s seen them bring tears to the eyes of bloodthirsty generals. He watches now as these words slow the bustling crowd before them. The Arabic words are ones that are recited over and over in his own country. The Adhaan. The call to prayer.

“I know the words by heart.” Antonio chuckles. “I keep trying to forget but I guess that is our curse. We can’t.”

Arthur remains silent. He knows what his companion is thinking about. The Moors. Muslims who had thrived in Spain, bringing rich culture and architecture. Antonio’s emerald eyes stare at an aging building seated in the distance. Arthur traces his empty gaze and is met by the ancient ghost of Cordoba. A building that suffered from a game of tug-of-war between religions. He guesses echoes of Isabella’s orders are ringing in the Mediterranean nation’s ears. 

“It’s not your fault.” Arthur knows what little consolation those words have. There’s nothing else to say.

“No?” A hint of hysteria slips into Antonio’s tone. “It’s not my fault? Despite the fact I could’ve said no?”

“They wouldn’t have listened.” Arthur shifts beneath the weight of Antonio’s eyes. “They never do.”

“It doesn’t matter.” The Spaniard’s words drop to a low mutter. “We enjoyed it. We thought it was right.” 

This isn’t the place Arthur wants to discuss this. The Sun has already lowered beneath the horizon as the mu’atthin recites his last few words. It’s nicer in Andalusia. Quieter than Madrid and the people seem friendlier. Glinting stars seat themselves in the cloudless sky, watching as the Brit struggles to make a decision.

Antonio’s right - that’s what hurts the most. He had been to Africa and the Caribbean. He had watched as captives were dragged onto ships. He stood on ships, chattering away to captains, as people suffered in cramped conditions below deck. He’d watched Indian servants quiver before him as they scurried to fulfill his orders. And what of the Native Americans? He now sickened at the satisfaction that filled him as he heard news of their extermination. Look where all this hate and xenophobia had brought his people. There are those all over his country who loathe immigrants yet none spare a second thought of the atrocities of the Empire.

Arthur takes Antonio’s hand in his own, brushing his thumb against tan knuckles. “What would Elizabeth say if she could see us?” The words are intended to lighten the mood but they only bring a recollection of their pirating days. 

“Philip is rolling in his grave.” Antonio squeezes his hand. There’s a long pause before he releases a soft sigh. “I can still see their faces, those people. I don’t even know their names but they haunt me almost every night.”

Arthur closes his eyes, trying to think of what he would do differently. How he would resolve all those conflicts.

“It won’t help.” The gentle lull of Antonio’s voice snaps him back to the reality of what he’s done. “Do you see the way those nations look at us? They’re still afraid.” He removes his hand from Arthur’s grip, barking out a short laugh. “I don’t blame them.” His British counterpart watches as he gnaws on his bottom lip, sitting on a confession he could never make. “I asked Lars if he still thinks about it. He told me to move on. He said there’s nothing more I can do.”

Rage swells in Arthur’s chest. “You shouldn’t forget.” The words attract the attention of passersby. “We can’t forget.” He lowers his tone as he places a hand on Antonio’s arm. “We can’t expect to be forgiven either.” The statement jabs at his ears, adding to his numerous pangs of guilt. “But we can help the world change. We’re talking countries for God’s sake. If we can’t help our people then nobody can.”

Antonio chuckles. His laughter inflates and rises, dancing in Arthur’s ears. They sit on the wall, relishing in each other’s giggles. People throw looks as they stroll past. Red flushes Arthur’s pale cheeks. Tears well in his eyes and he lets them fall. They’re not a product of his misery. His tear streaked flesh is a consequence of his joy.

The brunette leaps from their perch, nodding his head towards the other. “We should go.”

“The hotel’s the other way.” Arthur calls after him.

“I don’t think you’re in a mood to be around the others.” Antonio leans against the spot beside a pair of beige clad legs. “I have a place in one of the quieter spots of the city but I don’t want to be alone right now. What do you say, Arturo?”

Arthur takes the outstretched hand as he slides off his brick pedestal. “I’d be honoured Anthony.”

They chuckle to each other as their fingers intertwine. Antonio plants a kiss on Arthur’s rose tinted cheek before pulling him into a maze of winding backstreets. 

It’s 6:30pm when they leave.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you like it


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